A Moment On the Edge : 100 Years of Crime Stories By Women

Jack Be Quick BARBARA PAUL

30 September 1888, St. Jude’s Vicarage, Whitechapel.

He took two, this time, and within the same hour, Inspector Abberline told us. The first victim was found this morning less than an hour after midnight, in a small court off Berner Street.

The second woman was killed in Mitre Square forty-five minutes later. He did his hideous deed and escaped undetected, as he always does. Inspector Abberline believes he was interrupted in Berner Street, because he did not…do to that woman what he’d done to his other victims. My husband threw the Inspector a warning look, not wanting me exposed to such distressing matters more than necessary.

“But the second woman was severely mutilated,” Inspector Abberline concluded, offering no details. “He finished in Mitre Square what he’d begun in Berner Street.”

My husband and I knew nothing of the double murder, not having left the vicarage all day. When no one appeared for morning services, Edward was angry. Customarily we can count on a Sunday congregation of a dozen or so; we should have suspected something was amiss. “Do you know who the women were, Inspector?” I asked.

“One of them,” he said. “His Mitre Square victim was named Catherine Eddowes. We have yet to establish the identity of the Berner Street victim.”

Inspector Abberline looked exhausted; I poured him another cup of tea. He undoubtedly would have preferred something stronger, but Edward permitted no spirits in the house, not even sherry. I waited until the Inspector had taken a sip before I put my next question to him. “Did he cut out Catherine Eddowes’s womb the way he did Annie Chapman’s?”

Edward looked shocked that I should know about that, but the police investigator was beyond shock. “Yes, Mrs. Wickham, he did.

But this time he did not take it away with him.”

It was one of the many concerns that baffled and horrified me about the series of grisly murders haunting London. Annie Chapman’s disemboweled body had been found in Hanbury Street three weeks earlier; all the entrails had been piled above her shoulder except the womb. Why had he stolen her womb? “And the intestines?”

“Heaped over the left shoulder, as before.”

Edward cleared his throat. “This Eddowes woman…she was a prostitute!”

Inspector Abberline said she was. “And I have no doubt that the Berner Street victim will prove to have been on the game as well.

That’s the only common ground among his victims — they were all prostitutes.”

“Evil combating evil,” Edward said with a shake of his head.

“When will it end?”

Inspector Abberline put down his cup. “The end, alas, is not yet in sight. We are still conducting door-to-door searches, and the populace is beginning to panic. We have our hands full dispersing the mobs.”

“Mobs?” Edward asked. “Has there been trouble?”

“I regret to say there has. Everyone is so desperate to find someone to blame…” The Inspector allowed the unfinished sentence to linger a moment. “Earlier today a constable was chasing a petty thief through the streets, and someone who saw them called out, ‘It’s the Ripper!’ Several men joined in the chase, and then others, as the word spread that it was the Ripper the constable was pursuing. That mob was thirsting for blood — nothing less than a lynching would have satisfied them. The thief and the constable ended up barricading themselves in a building together until help could arrive.”

Edward shook his head sadly. “The world has gone mad.”

“It’s why I have come to you, Vicar,” Inspector Abberline said.

“You can help calm them down. You could speak to them, persuade them to compose themselves. Your presence in the streets will offer a measure of reassurance.”

“Of course,” Edward said quickly. “Shall we leave now? I’ll get my coat.”

The Inspector turned to me. “Mrs. Wickham, thank you for the tea. Now we must be going.” I saw both men to the door.

The Inspector did not know he had interrupted a disagreement between my husband and me, one that was recurring with increasing frequency of late. But I had no wish to revive the dispute when Edward returned; the shadow of these two new murders lay like a shroud over all other concerns. I retired to my sewing closet, where I tried to calm my spirit through prayer. One could not think dispassionately of this unknown man wandering the streets of London’s East End, a man who hated women so profoundly that he cut away those parts of the bodies that proclaimed his victims to be female. I tried to pray for him, lost soul that he is; God forgive me, I could not.

1 October 1888, St. Jude’s Vicarage.

Early the next morning the fog lay so thick about the vicarage that the street gaslights were still on. They performed their usual efficient function of lighting the tops of the poles; looking down from our bedroom window, I could not see the street below.

Following our morning reading from the Scriptures, Edward called my attention to an additional passage. “Since you are aware of what the Ripper does to his victims, Beatrice, it will be to your benefit to hear this. Attend. ‘Let the breast be torn open and the heart and vitals be taken from hence and thrown over the shoulder.’”

A moment of nausea overtook me. “The same way Annie Chapman and the others were killed.”

“Exactly,” Edward said with a hint of triumph in his voice. “Those are Solomon’s words, ordering the execution of three murderers. I wonder if anyone has pointed this passage out to Inspector Abberline? It could be of assistance in ascertaining the rationale behind these murders, perhaps revealing something of the killer’s mental disposition…” He continued in this speculative vein for a while longer.

I was folding linen as I listened. When he paused for breath, I asked Edward about his chambray shirt. “I’ve not seen it these two weeks.”

“Eh? It will turn up. I’m certain you have put it away somewhere.”

I was equally certain I had not. Then, with some trepidation, I re-introduced the subject of our disagreement the night before. “Edward, would you be willing to reconsider your position concerning charitable donations? If parishioners can’t turn to their church for help—”

“Allow me to interrupt you, my dear,” he said. “I am convinced that suffering cannot be reduced by indiscriminately passing out money but only through the realistic appraisal of each man’s problems. So long as the lower classes depend upon charity to see them through hard times, they will never learn thrift and the most propi-tious manner of spending what money they have.”

Edward’s “realistic appraisal” of individual problems always ended the same way, with little lectures on how to economize. “But surely in cases of extreme hardship,” I said, “a small donation would not be detrimental to their future well-being.”

“Ah, but how are we to determine who are those in true need?

They will tell any lie to get their hands on a few coins which they promptly spend on hard drink. And then they threaten us when those coins are not forthcoming! This is the legacy my predecessor at St. Jude’s has left us, this expectancy that the church owes them charity!”

That was true; the vicarage had been stoned more than once when Edward had turned petitioners away. “But the children, Edward — surely we can help the children! They are not to blame for their parents’ wastrel ways.”

Edward sat down next to me and took my hand. “You have a soft heart and a generous nature, Beatrice, and I venerate those qualities in you. Your natural instinct for charity is one of your most admirable traits.” He smiled sadly. “Nevertheless, how will these poor, desperate creatures ever learn to care for their own children if we do it for them? And there is this. Has it not occurred to you that God may be testing us? How simple it would be, to hand out a few coins and convince ourselves we have done our Christian duty! No, Beatrice, God is asking more of us than that. We must hold firm in our resolve.”

I acquiesced, seeing no chance of prevailing against such unshakable certitude that God’s will was dictating our course of action.

Furthermore, Edward Wickham was my husband and I owed him obedience, even when my heart was troubled and filled with uncertainty. It was his decision to make, not mine.

“Do not expect me until tea time,” Edward said as he rose and went to fetch his greatcoat. “Mr. Lusk has asked me to attend a meeting of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee, and I then have my regular calls to make. Best you not go out today, my dear, at least until Inspector Abberline has these riots under control.” Edward’s duties were keeping him away from the vicarage more and more. He sometimes would return in the early hours of the morning, melancholy and exhausted from trying to help a man find night work or from locating shelter for a homeless widow and her children.

At times he seemed not to remember where he’d been; I was concerned for his health and his spirit.

The fog was beginning to lift by the time he departed, but I still could not see very far — except in my mind’s eye. If one were to proceed down Commercial Street and then follow Aldgate to Lead-enhall and Cornhill on to the point where six roads meet at a statue of the Duke of Wellington, one would find onself in front of the imposing Royal Exchange, its rich interior murals and Turkish floor paving a proper setting for the transactions undertaken there. Across Threadneedle Street, the Bank of England, with its windowless lower stories, and the rocklike Stock Exchange both raise their impressive façades. Then one could turn to the opposite direction and behold several other banking establishments clustered around Mansion House, the Lord Mayor’s residence. It still dumbfounds me to realize that the wealth of the nation is concentrated there, in so small an area…all within walking distance of the worst slums in the nation.

Do wealthy bankers ever spare a thought for the appalling poverty of Whitechapel and Spitalfields? The people living within the boundaries of St. Jude’s parish are crowded like animals into a labyrinth of courts and alleys, none of which intersect major streets.

The crumbling, hazardous buildings fronting the courts house complete families in each room, sometimes numbering as many as a dozen people; in such circumstances, incest is common…and, some say, inevitable. The buildings reek from the liquid sewage accumulated in the basements, while the courts themselves stink of garbage that attracts vermin, dogs, and other scavengers. Often one standing pipe in the courtyard serves as the sole source of water for all the inhabitants of three or four buildings, an outdoor pipe that freezes with unremitting regularity during the winter. Once Edward and I were called out in the middle of the night to succor a woman suffering from scarlet fever; we found her in a foul-smelling single room with three children and four pigs. Her husband, a cabman, had committed suicide the month before; and it wasn’t until we were leaving that we discovered one of the children had been lying there dead for thirteen days.

The common lodging houses are even worse — filthy and infested and reservoirs of disease. In such doss houses a bed can be rented for fourpence for the night, strangers often sharing a bed because neither has the full price alone. There is no such thing as privacy, since the beds are lined up in crowded rows in the manner of dormitories. Beds are rented indiscriminately to men and women alike; consequently many of the doss houses are in truth brothels, and even those that are not have no compunction about renting a bed to a prostitute when she brings a paying customer with her. Inspector Abberline once told us the police estimate there are twelve hundred prostitutes in Whitechapel alone, fertile hunting grounds for the man who pleasures himself with the butchering of ladies of the night.

Ever since the Ripper began stalking the East End, Edward has been campaigning for more police to patrol the back alleys and for better street lighting. The problem is that Whitechapel is so poor it cannot afford the rates to pay for these needed improvements. If there is to be help, it must come from outside. Therefore I have undertaken a campaign of my own. Every day I write to philanthropists, charitable establishments, government officials. I petition every personage of authority and good will with whose name I am con-versant, pleading the cause of the children of Whitechapel, especially those ragged, dirty street arabs who sleep wherever they can, eat whatever they can scavenge or steal, and perform every unspeakable act demanded of them in exchange for a coin they can call their own.

12 October 1888, Golden Lane Mortuary, City of London.

Today I did something I have never done before: I wilfully disobeyed my husband. Edward had forbidden me to attend the inquest of Catherine Eddowes, saying I should not expose myself to such un-savory disclosures as were bound to be made. Also, he said it was unseemly for the vicar’s wife to venture abroad unaccompanied, a dictum that impresses me as more appropriately belonging to another time and place. I waited until Edward left the vicarage and then hurried on my way. My path took me past one of the larger slaughterhouses in the area; with my handkerchief covering my mouth and nose to keep out the stench, I had to cross the road to avoid the blood and urine flooding the pavement. Once I had left Whitechapel, however, the way was unencumbered.

Outside the Golden Lane Mortuary I was pleased to encounter Inspector Abberline; he was surprised to see me there and immediately offered himself as my protector. “Is the Reverend Mr. Wickham not with you?”

“He has business in Shoreditch,” I answered truthfully, not adding that Edward found inquests distasteful and would not have attended in any event.

“This crowd could turn ugly, Mrs. Wickham,” Inspector Abberline said. “Let me see if I can obtain us two chairs near the door.”

That he did, with the result that I had to stretch in a most unladylike manner to see over other people’s heads. “Inspector,” I said,

“have you learned the identity of the other woman who was killed the same night as Catherine Eddowes?”

“Yes, it was Elizabeth Stride — Long Liz, they called her. About forty-five years of age and homely as sin, if you’ll pardon my speaking ill of the dead. They were all unattractive, all the Ripper’s victims. One thing is certain, he didn’t choose them for their beauty.”

“Elizabeth Stride was a prostitute?”

“That she was, Mrs. Wickham, I’m sorry to say. She had nine children somewhere, and a husband, until he could tolerate her drunkenness no longer and turned her out. A woman with a nice big family like that and a husband who supported them — what reasons could she have had to turn to drink?”

I could think of nine or ten. “What about Catherine Eddowes?

Did she have children too?”

Inspector Abberline rubbed the side of his nose. “Well, she had a daughter, that much we know. We haven’t located her yet, though.”

The inquest was ready to begin. The small room was crowded, with observers standing along the walls and even outside in the passageway. The presiding coroner called the first witness, the police constable who found Catherine Eddowes’s body.

The remarkable point to emerge from the constable’s testimony was that his patrol took him through Mitre Square, where he’d found the body, every fourteen or fifteen minutes. The Ripper had only fifteen minutes to inflict so much damage? How swift he was, how sure of what he was doing!

It came out during the inquest that the Eddowes woman had been strangled before her killer had cut her throat, thus explaining why she had not cried out. In response to my whispered question, Inspector Abberline said yes, the other victims had also been strangled first.

When the physicians present at the postmortem testified, they were agreed that the killer had sound anatomical knowledge but they were not in accord as to the extent of his actual skill in removing the organs. Their reports of what had been done to the body were disturbing; I grew slightly faint during the description of how the flaps of the abdomen had been peeled back to expose the intestines.

Inspector Abberline’s sworn statement was succinct and free of speculation; he testified as to the course of action pursued by the police following the discovery of the body. There were other witnesses, people who had encountered Catherine Eddowes on the night she was killed. At one time she had been seen speaking to a middle-aged man wearing a black coat of good quality which was now slightly shabby; it was the same description that had emerged during the investigation of one of the Ripper’s earlier murders. But at the end of it all we were no nearer to knowing the Ripper’s identity than ever; the verdict was “Willful murder by some person unknown.”

I refused Inspector Abberline’s offer to have one of his assistants escort me home. “That makes six women he’s killed now, this Ripper,” I said. “You need all of your men for your investigation.”

The Inspector rubbed the side of his nose, a mannerism I was coming to recognize indicated uncertainty. “As a matter of fact, Mrs.

Wickham, I am of the opinion that only four were killed by the same man. You are thinking of the woman murdered near St. Jude’s Church? And the one on Osborn Street?” He shook his head. “Not the Ripper’s work, I’m convinced of it.”

“What makes you think so, Inspector?”

“Because while those two women did have their throats cut, they weren’t cut in the same manner as the later victims.” There is vicious-ness in the way the Ripper slashes his victims’ throats…he is left-handed, we know, and he slashes twice, once each way. The cuts are deep, brutal…he almost took Annie Chapman’s head off. No, Polly Nichols was his first victim, then Chapman. And now this double murder, Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes. Those four are all the work of the same man.”

I shuddered. “Did the four women know one another?”

“Not that we can determine,” Inspector Abberline replied.

“Evidently they had nothing in common except the fact that they were all four prostitutes.”

More questions occurred to me, but I had detained the Inspector long enough. I bade him farewell and started back to St. Jude’s, a long walk from Golden Lane. The daylight was beginning to fail, but I had no money for a hansom cab. I pulled my shawl tight about my shoulders and hurried my step, not wishing to be caught out of doors after dark. It was my husband’s opinion that since the Ripper killed only prostitutes, respectable married women had nothing to fear. It was my opinion that my husband put altogether too much faith in the Ripper’s ability to tell the difference.

I was almost home when a most unhappy incident ensued. A distraught woman approached me on Middlesex Street, carrying what looked like a bundle of rags which she thrust into my arms.

Inside the rags was a dead baby. I cried out and almost dropped the cold little body.

“All he needed were a bit o’ milk,” the mother said, tears running down her cheeks.

“Oh, I am so sorry!” I gasped helplessly. The poor woman looked half-starved herself.

“They said it was no use a-sending to the church,” she sobbed,

“for you didn’t never give nothing though you spoke kind.”

I was so ashamed I had to lower my head. Even then I didn’t have tuppence in my pocket to give her. I slipped off my shawl and wrapped it around the tiny corpse. “Bury him in this.”

She mumbled something as she took the bundle from me and staggered away. She would prepare to bury her child in the shawl, but at the last moment she would snatch back the shawl’s warmth for herself. She would cry over her dead baby as she did it, but she would do it. I prayed that she would do it.

16 October 1888, St. Jude’s Vicarage.

This morning I paid an out-of-work bricklayer fourpence to clean out our fireplaces. In the big fireplace in the kitchen, he made a surprising discovery: soot-blackened buttons from my husband’s missing chambray shirt turned up. When later I asked Edward why he had burned his best shirt, he looked at me in utter astonishment and demanded to know why I had burned it. Yet we two are the only ones living at the vicarage.

22 October 1888, Spitalfields Market.

The chemist regretfully informed me that the price of arsenic had risen, so of necessity I purchased less than the usual quantity, hoping Edward would find the diminished volume sufficient. Keeping the vicarage free of rats was costly. When first we took up residence at St. Jude’s, we believed the rats were coming from the warehouses farther along Commercial Street; but then we came to understand that every structure in Whitechapel was plagued with vermin. As fast as one killed them, others appeared to take their place.

A newspaper posted outside an alehouse caught my eye; I had made it a point to read every word published about the Ripper. The only new thing was that all efforts to locate the family of Catherine Eddowes, the Ripper’s last victim, had failed. A front-page editorial demanded the resignation of the Commissioner of Police and various other men in authority. Three weeks had passed since the Ripper had taken two victims on the same night, and the police still had no helpful clues and no idea of who the Ripper was or when he would strike next. That he would strike again, no one doubted; that the police could protect the women of Whitechapel, no one believed.

In the next street I came upon a posted bill requesting anyone with information concerning the identity of the murderer to step forward and convey that information to the police. The request saddened me; the police could not have formulated a clearer admission of failure.

25 October 1888, St. Jude’s Vicarage.

Edward is ill. When he had not appeared at the vicarage by tea time yesterday, I began to worry. I spent an anxious evening awaiting his return; it was well after midnight before I heard his key in the lock.

He looked like a stranger. His eyes were glistening and his clothes in disarray; his usual proud bearing had degenerated into a stoop, his shoulders hunched as if he were cold. The moment he caught sight of me he began berating me for failing to purchase the arsenic he needed to kill the rats; it was only when I led him to the pantry where he himself had spread the noxious powder around the rat holes did his reprimands cease. His skin was hot and dry, and with difficulty I persuaded him into bed.

But sleep would not come. I sat by the bed and watched him thrashing among the covers, throwing off the cool cloth I had placed on his forehead. Edward kept waving his hands as if trying to fend someone off; what nightmares was he seeing behind those closed lids? In his delirium he began to cry out. At first the words were not clear, but then I understood my husband to be saying, “Whores!

Whores! All whores!”

When by two in the morning his fever had not broken, I knew I had to seek help. I wrapped my cloak about me and set forth, not permitting myself to dwell on what could be hiding in the shadows. I do not like admitting it, but I was terrified; nothing less than Edward’s illness could have driven me into the streets of Whitechapel at night. But I reached my destination with nothing untoward happening; I roused Dr. Phelps from a sound sleep and rode back to the vicarage with him in his carriage.

When Dr. Phelps bent over the bed, Edward’s eyes flew open; he seized the doctor’s upper arm in a grip that made the man wince.

“They must be stopped!” my husband whispered hoarsely.

“They…must be stopped!”

“We will stop them,” Dr. Phelps replied gently and eased Edward’s hand away. Edward’s eyes closed and his body resumed its thrashing.

The doctor’s examination was brief. “The fever is making him hallucinate,” he told me. “Sleep is the best cure, followed by a period of bed rest.” He took a small vial from his bag and asked me to bring a glass of water. He tapped a few drops of liquid into the water, which he then poured into Edward’s mouth as I held his head.

“What did you give him?” I asked.

“Laudanum, to make him sleep. I will leave the vial with you.”

Dr. Phelps rubbed his right arm where Edward had gripped him.

“Strange, I do not recall Mr. Wickham as being left-handed.”

“He is ambidextrous. This fever…will he recover?”

“The next few hours will tell. Give him more laudanum only if he awakes in this same disturbed condition, and then only one drop in a glass of water. I will be back later to see how he is.”

When Dr. Phelps had gone, I replaced the cool cloth on Edward’s forehead and resumed my seat by the bed. Edward did seem calmer now, the wild thrashing at an end and only the occasional twitching of the hands betraying his inner turmoil. By dawn he was in a deep sleep and seemed less feverish.

My spirit was too disturbed to permit me to sleep. I decided to busy myself with household chores. Edward’s black greatcoat was in need of a good brushing, so that came first. It was then that I discovered the rust-colored stains on the cuffs; they did not look fresh, but I could not be certain. Removing them was a delicate matter. The coat had seen better days and the cloth would not withstand vigorous handling. But eventually I got the worst of the stains out and hung the coat in the armoire.

Then I knelt by the bedroom window and prayed. I asked God to vanquish the dark suspicions that had begun to cloud my mind.

Whitechapel had changed Edward. Since he had accepted the appointment to St. Jude’s, he had become more distant, more aloof.

He had always been a reserved man, speaking rarely of himself and never of his past. I knew nothing of his childhood, only that he had been born in London; he had always discouraged my inquiring about the years before we met. If my parents had still been living when Edward first began to pay court, they would never have permitted me to entertain a man with no background, no family, and no connections. But by then I had passed what was generally agreed to be a marriageable age, and I was enchanted by the appearance out of nowhere of a gentleman of compatible spirit who desired me to spend my life with him. All I knew of Edward was that he was a little older than most new curates were, suggesting that he had started in some other profession, or had at least studied for one, before joining the clergy. Our twelve years together had been peaceful ones, and I had never regretted my choice.

But try as he might to disguise the fact, Edward’s perspective had grown harsher during our tenure in Whitechapel. Sadly, he held no respect for the people whose needs he was here to minister to. I once heard him say to a fellow vicar, “The lower classes render no useful service. They create no wealth — more often they destroy it. They degrade whatever they touch, and as individuals are most probably incapable of improvement. Thrift and good management mean nothing to them. I resist terming them hopeless, but perhaps that is what they are.” The Edward Wickham I married would never have spoken so.

“Beatrice.”

I glanced toward the bed; Edward was awake and watching me.

I rose from my knees and went to his side. “How do you feel, Edward?”

“Weak, as if I’ve lost a lot of blood.” He looked confused. “Am I ill?”

I explained about the fever. “Dr. Phelps says you need a great deal of rest.”

“Dr. Phelps? He was here?” Edward remembered nothing of the doctor’s visit. Nor did he remember where he’d been the night before or even coming home. “This is frightening,” he said shakily. His speech was slurred, an effect of the laudanum. “Hours of my life missing and no memory of them?”

“We will worry about that later. Right now you must try to sleep some more.”

“Sleep…yes.” I sat and held his hand until he drifted off again.

When he awoke a second time a few hours later, I brought him a bowl of broth, which he consumed with reawakening appetite. My husband was clearly on the mend; he was considering getting out of bed when Dr. Phelps stopped by.

The doctor was pleased with Edward’s progress. “Spend the rest of the day resting,” he said, “and then tomorrow you may be allowed up. You must be careful not to overtax yourself or the fever may recur.”

Edward put up a show of protesting, but I think he was secretly relieved that nothing was required of him except that he lie in bed all day. I escorted the doctor to the door.

“Make sure he eats,” he said to me. “He needs to rebuild his strength.”

I said I’d see to it. Then I hesitated; I could not go on without knowing. “Dr. Phelps, did anything happen last night?”

“I beg your pardon?”

He didn’t know what I meant. “Did the Ripper strike again?”

Dr. Phelps smiled. “I am happy to say he did not. Perhaps we’ve seen an end of these dreadful killings, hmm?”

My relief was so great it was all I could do not to burst into tears.

When the doctor had gone, I again fell to my knees and prayed, this time asking God to forgive me for entertaining such treacherous thoughts about my own husband.

1 November 1888, Leman Street Police Station, Whitechapel.

It was with a light heart that I left the vicarage this bright, crisp Tuesday morning. My husband was recovered from his recent indisposition and busy with his daily duties. I had received two encouraging replies to my petitions for charitable assistance for Whitechapel’s children. And London had survived the entire month of October without another Ripper killing.

I was on my way to post two letters, my responses to the philanthropists who seemed inclined to listen to my plea. In my letters I had pointed out that over half the children born in Whitechapel die before they reach the age of five. The ones that do not die are mentally and physically underdeveloped; many of them that are taken into pauper schools are adjudged abnormally dull if not actual mental defectives. Children frequently arrive at school crying from hunger and then collapse at their benches. In winter they are too cold to think about learning their letters or doing their sums. The schools themselves are shamefully mismanaged and the children sometimes mistreated; there are school directors who pocket most of the budget and hire out the children to sweatshop owners as cheap labor.

What I proposed was the establishment of a boarding school for the children of Whitechapel, a place where the young would be provided with hygienic living conditions, wholesome food to eat, and warm clothing to wear — all before they ever set foot in a classroom. Then when their physical needs had been attended to, they would be given proper educational and moral instruction. The school was to be administered by an honest and conscientious director who could be depended upon never to exploit the downtrodden. All this would cost a great deal of money.

My letters went into the post accompanied by a silent prayer. I was then in Leman Street, not far from the police station. I stopped in and asked if Inspector Abberline was there.

He was; he greeted me warmly and offered me a chair. After inquiring after my husband’s health, he sat back and looked at me expectantly.

Now that I was there, I felt a tinge of embarrassment. “It is pre-sumptuous of me, I know,” I said, “but may I make a suggestion?

Concerning the Ripper, I mean. You’ve undoubtedly thought of every possible approach, but…” I didn’t finish my sentence because he was laughing.

“Forgive me, Mrs. Wickham,” he said, still smiling. “I would like to show you something.” He went into another room and returned shortly carrying a large box filled with papers. “These are letters,”

he explained, “from concerned citizens like yourself. Each one offers a plan for capturing the Ripper. And we have two more boxes just like this one.”

I flushed and rose to leave. “Then I’ll not impose—”

“Please, Mrs. Wickham, take your seat. We read every letter that comes to us and give serious consideration to every suggestion made.

I show you the box only to convince you we welcome suggestions.”

I resumed my seat, not fully convinced but nevertheless encouraged by the Inspector’s courtesy. “Very well.” I tried to gather my thoughts. “The Ripper’s first victim, you are convinced, was Polly Nichols?”

“Correct. Buck’s Row, the last day of August.”

“The Illustrated Times said that she was forty-two years old and separated from her husband, to whom she had borne five children.

The cause of their separation was her propensity for strong drink.

Mr. Nichols made his wife an allowance, according to the Times, until he learned of her prostitution — at which time he discontinued all pecuniary assistance. Is this account essentially correct?”

“Yes, it is.”

“The Ripper’s next victim was Annie Chapman, about forty, who was murdered early in September?”

“The night of the eighth,” Inspector Abberline said, “although her body wasn’t found until six the next morning. She was killed on Hanbury Street, less than half a mile from the Buck’s Row site of Polly Nichols’s murder.”

I nodded. “Annie Chapman also ended on the streets because of drunkenness. She learned her husband had died only when her allowance stopped. When she tried to find her two children, she discovered they had been separated and sent to different schools, one of them abroad.”

Inspector Abberline raised an eyebrow. “How did you ascertain that, Mrs. Wickham?”

“One of our parishioners knew her,” I said. “Next came the double murder of Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes, during the small hours of the thirtieth of September. Berner Street and Mitre Square, a fifteen-minute walk from each other. The Stride woman was Swedish by birth and claimed to be a widow, but I have heard that may not be true. She was a notorious inebriate, according to one of the constables patrolling Fairclough Street, and she may simply have been ashamed to admit her husband would not allow her near the children — the nine children. Is this also correct?”

The Inspector was looking bemused. “It is.”

“Of Catherine Eddowes I know very little. But the Times said she had spent the night before her death locked up in the Cloak Lane Police Station, because she’d been found lying drunk in the street somewhere in Aldgate. And you yourself told me she had a daughter. Did she also have a husband, Inspector?”

He nodded slowly. “A man named Conway. We’ve been unable to trace him.”

The same pattern in each case. “You’ve said on more than one occasion that the four victims had only their prostitution in common.

But in truth, Inspector, they had a great deal in common. They were all in their forties. They were all lacking in beauty. They had all been married. They all lost their homes through a weakness for the bottle.” I took a breath. “And they were all mothers.”

Inspector Abberline looked at me quizzically.

“They were all mothers who abandoned their children.”

He considered it. “You think the Ripper had been abandoned?”

“Is it not possible? Or perhaps he too had a wife he turned out because of drunkenness. I don’t know where he fits into the pattern.

But consider. The nature of the murders makes it quite clear that these women are not just killed the way the unfortunate victim of a highwayman is killed — the women are being punished.” I was uncomfortable speaking of such matters, but speak I must. “The manner of their deaths, one might say, is a grotesque version of the way they earned their livings.”

The Inspector was also uncomfortable. “They were not raped, Mrs. Wickham.”

“But of course they were, Inspector,” I said softly. “They were raped with a knife.”

I had embarrassed him. “We should not be speaking of this,” he said, further chagrined at seeming to rebuke the vicar’s wife. “These are not matters that concern you.”

“All I ask is that you consider what I have said.”

“Oh, I can promise you that,” he answered wryly, and I believed him. “I do have some encouraging news,” he continued, desirous of changing the subject. “We have been given more men to patrol the streets — more than have even before been concentrated in one section of London! The next time the Ripper strikes, we’ll be ready for him.”

“Then you think he will strike again.”

“I fear so. He’s not done yet.”

It was the same opinion that was held by everyone else, but it was more ominous coming from the mouth of a police investigator. I thanked Inspector Abberline for his time and left.

The one thing that had long troubled me about the investigation of the Ripper murders was the refusal of the investigators to acknowledge that there was anything carnal about these violent acts. The killings were the work of a madman, the police and the newspapers agreed…as if that explained everything. But unless Inspector Abberline and the rest of those in authority could see the fierce hatred of women that drove the Ripper, I despaired of his ever being caught.

10 November 1888, Miller’s Court, Spitalfields.

At three in the morning, I was still fully dressed, awaiting Edward’s return to the vicarage. It had been hours since I’d made my last excuse to myself for his absence; his duties frequently kept him out late, but never this late. I was trying to decide whether I should go to Dr. Phelps for help when a frantic knocking started at the door.

It was a young market porter named Macklin who occasionally attended services at St. Jude’s, and he was in a frantic state. “It’s the missus,” he gasped. “’Er time is come and the midwife’s too drunk to stand up. Will you come?”

I said I would. “Let me get a few things.” I was distracted, wanting to send him away; but this was the Macklins’ first child and I couldn’t turn down his plea for help.

We hurried off in the direction of Spitalfields; the couple had recently rented a room in a slum building facing on Miller’s Court. I knew the area slightly. Edward and I had once been called to a doss house there to minister to a dying man. That was the first time I’d ever been inside one of the common lodging houses; it was a big place, over three hundred beds and every one of them rented for the night.

Miller’s Court was right across the street from the doss house. As we went into the courtyard, a girl of about twelve unfolded herself from the doorway where she had been huddled and tugged at my skirt. “Fourpence for a doss, lady?”

“Get out of ’ere!” Macklin yelled. “Go on!”

“Just a moment,” I stopped him. I asked the girl if she had no home to go to.

“Mam turned me out,” the girl answered sullenly. “Says don’t come back ’til light.”

I understood; frequently the women here put their children out on the street while they rented their room for immoral purposes. “I have no money,” I told the girl, “but you may come inside.”

“Not in my room, she don’t!” Macklin shouted.

“She can be of help, Mr. Macklin,” I said firmly.

He gave in ungraciously. The girl, who said her name was Rose Howe, followed us inside. Straightaway I started to sneeze; the air was filled with particles of fur. Someone in the building worked at plucking hair from dogs, rabbits, and perhaps even rats for sale to a furrier. There were other odors as well; the building held at least one fish that had not been caught yesterday. I could smell paste, from drying match boxes, most likely. It was all rather overpowering.

Macklin led us up a flight of stairs from which the banisters had been removed — for firewood, no doubt. Vermin-infested wallpaper was hanging in strips above our heads. Macklin opened a door upon a small room where his wife lay in labor. Mrs. Macklin was still a girl herself, only a few years older than Rose Howe. She was lying on a straw mattress, undoubtedly infested with fleas, on a broken-down bedstead. A few boxes were stacked against one wall; the only other piece of furniture was a plank laid across two stacks of bricks.

I sent Macklin down to fill a bucket from the water pipe in the courtyard, and then I put Rose Howe to washing some rags I found in a corner.

It was a long labor. Rose curled up on the floor and went to sleep.

Macklin wandered out for a few pints.

Day had broken before the baby came. Macklin was back, sobriety returning with each cry of pain from his young wife. Since it was daylight, Rose Howe could have returned to her own room but instead stayed and helped; she stood like a rock, letting Mrs. Macklin grip her thin wrists during the final bearing-down.

The baby was undersized; but as I cleared out her mouth and nose, she voiced a howl that announced her arrival to the world in no uncertain terms. I watched a smile light the faces of both girls as Rose cleaned the baby and placed her in her mother’s arms. Then Rose held the cord as I tied it off with thread in two places and cut it through with my sewing scissors.

Macklin was a true loving husband. “Don’t you worry none, love,”

he said to his wife. “Next ’un’ll be a boy.”

I told Rose Howe I’d finish cleaning up and for her to go home.

Then I told Macklin to bring his daughter to St. Jude’s for christening.

When at last I was ready to leave, the morning sun was high in the sky.

To my surprise the small courtyard was crowded with people, one of whom was a police constable. I tried to work my way through to the street, but no one would yield a passage for me; I’m not certain they even knew I was there. They were all trying to peer through the broken window of a ground-floor room. “Constable?” I called out. “What has happened here?”

He knew me; he blocked the window with his body and said,

“You don’t want to look in there, Mrs. Wickham.”

A fist of ice closed around my heart; the constable’s facial expression already told me, but I had to ask nonetheless. I swallowed and said, “Is it the Ripper?”

He nodded slowly. “It appears so, ma’am. I’ve sent for Inspector Abberline — you there, stand back!” Then, to me again: “He’s not never killed indoors afore. This is new for him.”

I was having trouble catching my breath. “That means…he didn’t have to be quick this time. That means he could take as much time as he liked.”

The constable was clenching and unclenching his jaw. “Yes’m.

He took his time.”

Oh dear God. “Who is she, do you know?”

“The rent-collector found her. Here, Thomas, what’s her name again?”

A small, frightened-looking man spoke up. “Mary…Mary Kelly. Three months behind in ’er rent, she was. I thought she was hidin’ from me.”

The constable scowled. “So you broke the window to try to get in?”

“’Ere, now, that winder’s been broke these past six weeks! I pulled out the bit o’ rag she’d stuffed in the hole so I could reach through and push back the curtain — just like you done, guv’nor, when you wanted to see in!” The rent-collector had more to say, but his words were drowned out by the growing noise of the crowd, which by now had so multiplied in its numbers that it overflowed from Miller’s Court into a passageway leading to the street. A few women were sobbing, one of them close to screaming.

Inspector Abberline arrived with two other men, all three of them looking grim. The Inspector immediately tried the door and found it locked. “Break out the rest of the window,” he ordered. “The rest of you, stand back. Mrs. Wickham, what are you doing here? Break in the window, I say!”

One of his men broke out the rest of the glass and crawled over the sill. We heard a brief, muffled cry, and then the door was opened from the inside. Inspector Abberline and his other man pushed into the room…and the latter abruptly rushed back out again, retching.

The constable hastened to his aid, and without stepping to think about it, I stepped into the room.

What was left of Mary Kelly was lying on a cot next to a small table. Her throat had been cut so savagely that her head was nearly severed. Her left shoulder had been chopped through so that her arm remained attached to the body only by a flap of skin. Her face had been slashed and disfigured, and her nose had been hacked away…and carefully laid on the small table beside the cot. Her breasts had been sliced off and placed on the same table. The skin had been peeled from her forehead; her thighs had also been stripped of their skin. The legs themselves had been spread in an indecent posture and then slashed to the bone. And Mary Kelly’s abdomen had been ripped open, and between her feet lay one of her internal organs…possibly the liver. On the table lay a piece of the victim’s brown plaid woolen petticoat half-wrapped around still another organ. The missing skin had been carefully mounded on the table next to the other body parts, as if the Ripper were rebuilding his victim. But this time the killer had not piled the intestines above his victim’s shoulder as he’d done before; this time, he had taken them away with him. Then as a final embellishment, he had pushed Mary Kelly’s right hand into her ripped-open stomach.

Have you punished her enough, Jack? Don’t you want to hurt her some more?

I felt a hand grip my arm and steer me firmly outside. “You shouldn’t be in here, Mrs. Wickham,” Inspector Abberline said. He left me leaning against the wall of the building as he went back inside; a hand touched my shoulder and Thomas the rent-collector said, “There’s a place to sit, over ’ere.” He led me to an upended wooden crate, where I sank down gratefully. I sat with my head bent over my knees for some time before I could collect myself enough to utter a prayer for Mary Kelly’s soul.

Inspector Abberline’s men were asking questions of everyone in the crowd. When one of them approached me, I explained I’d never known Mary Kelly and was here only because of the birth of the Macklin baby in the same building. The Inspector himself came over and commanded me to go home; I was not inclined to dispute the order.

“It appears this latest victim does not fit your pattern,” the Inspector said as I was leaving. “Mary Kelly was a prostitute, but she was still in her early twenties. And from what we’ve learned so far, she had no husband and no children.”

So the last victim had been neither middle-aged, nor married, nor a mother. It was impossible to tell whether poor Mary Kelly had been homely or not. But the Ripper had clearly chosen a woman this time who was markedly different from his earlier victims, deviating from his customary pattern. I wondered what it meant; had some change taken place in his warped, evil mind?

Had he progressed one step deeper into madness?

I thought about that on the way home from Miller’s Court. I thought about that, and about Edward.

10 November 1888, St. Jude’s Vicarage.

It was almost noon by the time I reached the vicarage. Edward was there, fast asleep. Normally he never slept during the day, but the small vial of laudanum Dr. Phelps had left was on the bedside table; Edward had drugged himself into a state of oblivion.

I picked up his clothes from the floor where he’d dropped them and went over every piece carefully; not a drop of blood anywhere.

But the butchering of Mary Kelly had taken place indoors; the butcher could simply have removed his clothing before beginning his “work.” Next I checked all the fireplaces, but none of them had been used to burn anything. It could be happenstance, I told myself.

I didn’t know how long Edward had been blacking out; it was probably not as singular as it seemed that one of his spells should coincide with a Ripper slaying. That’s what I told myself.

The night had exhausted me. I had no appetite but a cup of fresh tea would be welcome. I was on my way to the kitchen when a knock at the door stopped me. It was the constable I’d spoken to at Miller’s Court.

He handed me an envelope. “Inspector Abberline said to give you this.” He touched his cap and was gone.

I went to stand by the window where the light was better. Inside the envelope was a hastily scrawled note.

My dear Mrs. Wickham,

Further information has come to light that makes it appear that your theory of a pattern in the Ripper murders may not be erroneous after all. Although Mary Kelly currently had no husband, she had at one time been married. At the age of sixteen she wed a collier who died less than a year later. During her widowhood she found a series of men to support her for brief periods until she ended on the streets. And she was given to strong drink, as the other four victims were. But the most cogent revelation is the fact that Mary Kelly was pregnant. That would explain why she was so much younger than the Ripper’s earlier victims: he was stopping her before she could abandon her children.

Yrs,

Frederick Abberline

So. Last night the Ripper had taken two lives instead of one, assuring that a fertile young woman would never bear children to suffer the risk of being forsaken. It was not in the Ripper’s nature to consider that his victims had themselves been abandoned in their time of need. Polly Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, and Catherine Eddowes had all taken to drink for reasons no one would ever know and had subsequently been turned out of their homes. And now there was Mary Kelly, widowed while little more than a child and with no livelihood — undoubtedly she lacked the education and resources to support herself honorably. Polly, Annie, Elizabeth, Catherine, and Mary…they had all led immoral and degraded lives, every one of them. But in not even one instance had it been a matter of choice.

I put Inspector Abberline’s note in a drawer in the writing table and returned to the kitchen; I’d need to start a fire to make the tea.

The wood box had recently been filled, necessitating my moving the larger pieces to get at the twigs underneath. Something else was underneath as well. I pulled out a long strip of brown plaid wool cloth with brown stains on it. Brown plaid wool. Mary Kelly’s petticoat. Mary Kelly’s blood.

The room began to whirl. There it was. No more making of excuses. No more denying the truth. I was married to the Ripper.

For twelve years Edward had kept the odious secret of his abnormal inner being, hiding behind a mask of gentility and even godliness. He had kept his secret well. But no more. The masquerade was ended. I sank to my knees and prayed for guidance. More than anything in the world I wanted to send for Inspector Abberline and have him take away the monster who was sleeping upstairs. But if the laudanum-induced sleep had the same effect this time as when he was ill, Edward would awake as his familiar rational self. If I could speak to him, make him understand what he’d done, give him the opportunity to surrender voluntarily to the police, surely that would be the most charitable act I could perform under these hideous circumstances. If Edward were to have any chance at all for redemp-tion, he must beg both God and man for forgiveness.

With shaking hands I tucked the strip of cloth away in my pocket and forced myself to concentrate on the routine of making tea. The big kettle was already out; but when I went to fill it with water, it felt heavy. I lifted the lid and found myself looking at a pile of human intestines.

I did not faint…most probably because I was past all feeling by then. I tried to think. The piece of cloth Edward could have used to wipe off the knife; then he would have put the cloth in the wood box with the intention of burning it later. But why wait? And. the viscera in the tea kettle…was I meant to find that? Was this Edward’s way of asking for help? And where was the knife? Systematically I began to look for it; but after nearly two hours’ intensive search, I found nothing. He could have disposed of the knife on his way home. He could have hidden it in the church. He could have it under his pillow.

I went into the front parlor and forced myself to sit down. I was frightened; I didn’t want to stay under the same roof with him, I didn’t want to fight for his soul. Did he even have a soul any more?

The Edward Wickham I had lain beside every night for twelve years was a counterfeit person, one whose carefully fabricated personality and demeanor had been devised to control and constrain the demon imprisoned inside. The deception had worked well until we came to Whitechapel, when the constraints began to weaken and the demon escaped. What had caused the change — was it the place itself? The constant presence of prostitutes in the streets? It was beyond my comprehension.

The stresses of the past twenty-four hours eventually proved too much for me; my head fell forward, and I slept.

Edward’s hand on my shoulder awoke me. I started, and gazed at him with apprehension; but his face showed only gentle concern.

“Is something wrong, Beatrice? Why are you sleeping in the afternoon?”

I pressed my fingertips against my eyes. “I did not sleep last night.

The Macklin baby was born early this morning.”

“Ah! Both mother and child doing well, I trust? I hope you impressed upon young Macklin the importance of an early christening.

But Beatrice, the next time you are called out, I would be most grateful if you could find a way to send me word. When you had not returned by midnight, I began to grow worried.”

That was the first falsehood Edward had ever told me that I could recognize as such; it was I who had been waiting for him at midnight.

His face was so open, so seemingly free of guile…did he honestly have no memory of the night before, or was he simply exceptionally skilled in the art of deception? I stood up and began to pace. “Edward, we must talk about last night…about what you did last night.”

His eyebrow shot up. “I?”

I couldn’t look at him. “I found her intestines in the tea kettle.

Mary Kelly’s intestines.”

“Intestines?” I could hear the distaste in his voice. “What is this, Beatrice? And who is Mary Kelly?”

“She’s the woman you killed last night!” I cried. “Surely you knew her name!” I turned to confront him…and saw a look of such loathing on his face that I took a step back. “Oh!” I gasped involuntarily. “Please don’t…” Edward? Jack?

The look disappeared immediately — he knew, he knew what he was doing! “I killed someone last night, you say?” he asked, his rational manner quickly restored. “And then I put her intestines…in the tea kettle? Why don’t you show me, Beatrice?”

Distrustful of his suggestion, I nevertheless led the way to the kitchen. As I’d half expected, the tea kettle was empty and spotlessly clean. With a heavy heart I pulled the piece of brown plaid cloth out of my pocket. “But here is something you neglected to destroy.”

He scowled. “A dirty rag?”

“Oh, Edward, stop professing you know nothing of this! It is a strip from Mary Kelly’s petticoat, as you well realize! Edward, you must go to the police. Confess all, make your peace with God. No one else can stop your nocturnal expeditions — you must stop yourself! Go to Inspector Abberline.”

He held out one hand. “Give me the rag,” he said expression-lessly.

“Think of your soul, Edward! This is your one chance for salvation!

You must confess!”

“The rag, Beatrice.”

“I cannot! Edward, do you not understand? You are ac-cursed — your own actions have damned you! You must go down on your knees and beg for forgiveness!”

Edward lowered his hand. “You are ill, my dear. This delusion of yours that I am the Ripper — that is the crux of your accusation, is it not? This distraction is most unbefitting the wife of the vicar of St.

Jude’s. I cannot tolerate the thought that before long you may be found raving in the street. We will pray together, we will ask God to send you self-control.”

I thought I understood what that meant. “Very well…if you will not turn yourself over to the police, there is only one alternate course of action open to you. You must kill yourself.”

“Beatrice!” He was shocked. “Suicide is a sin!”

His reaction was so absurd that I had to choke down a hysterical laugh. But it made me understand that further pleading would be fruitless. He was hopelessly insane; I would never be able to reach him.

Edward was shaking his head. “I am most disturbed, Beatrice.

This dementia of yours is more profound than I realized. I must tell you I am unsure of my capacity to care for you while you are subject to delusions. Perhaps an institution is the rightful solution.”

I was stunned. “You would put me in an asylum?”

He sighed. “Where else will we find physicians qualified to treat dementia? But if you cannot control these delusions of yours, I see no other recourse. You must pray, Beatrice, you must pray for the ability to discipline your thoughts.”

He could have me locked away; he could have me locked away and then continue unimpeded with his ghastly killings, never having to worry about a wife who noticed too much. It was a moment before I could speak. “I will do as you say, Edward. I will pray.”

“Excellent! I will pray with you. But first — the rag, please.”

Slowly, reluctantly, I handed him the strip of Mary Kelly’s petticoat. Edward took a fireplace match and struck it, and the evidence linking him to murder dissolved into thin black smoke that spiralled up the chimney. Then we prayed; we asked God to give me the mental and spiritual willpower I lacked.

Following that act of hypocrisy, Edward suggested that I prepare our tea; I put the big tea kettle aside and used my smaller one. Talk during tea was about several church duties Edward still needed to perform. I spoke only when spoken to and was careful to give no offense. I did everything I could to assure my husband that I deferred to his authority.

Shortly before six Edward announced he was expected at a meeting of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee. I waited until he was out of sight and went first to the cupboard for a table knife and then to the writing table for a sheet of foolscap. Then I stepped into the pantry and began to scrape up as much of the arsenic from the rat holes as I could.

23 February 1892, Whitechapel Charitable Institute for Indigent Children.

Inspector Abberline sat in my office, nodding approval at everything he’d seen. “It’s difficult to believe,” he said, “that these are the same thin and dirty children who only months ago used to sleep in doorways and under wooden crates. You have worked wonders, Mrs.

Wickham. The board of trustees could not have found a better director. Are the children learning to read and write? Can they learn?”

“Some can,” I answered. “Others are slower. The youngest are the quickest, it seems. I have great hopes for them.”

“I wonder if they understand how fortunate they are. What a pity the Reverend Mr. Wickham didn’t live to see this. He would have been so pleased with what you’ve accomplished.”

“Yes.” Would he have? Edward always believed the poor should care for their own.

The Inspector was still thinking of my late husband. “I had an aunt who succumbed to gastric fever,” he said. “Dreadful way to die, dreadful.” He suddenly realized I might not care to be reminded of the painful method of Edward’s passing. “I do beg your pardon — that was thoughtless of me.”

I told him not to be concerned. “I am reconciled to his death now, as much as I can ever be. My life is here now, in the school, and it is a most rewarding way to spend my days.”

He smiled. “I can see you are in your element.” Then he sobered.

“I came not only to see your school but also to tell you something.”

He leaned forward in his chair. “The file on the Ripper is officially closed. It’s been more than two years since his last murder. For whatever reason he stopped, he did stop. That particular reign of terror is over. The case is closed.”

My heart lifted. Keeping up my end of the conversation, I asked,

“Why do you think he stopped, Inspector?”

He rubbed the side of his nose. “He stopped either because he’s dead or because he’s locked up somewhere, in an asylum or perhaps in prison for some other crime. Forgive my bluntness, Mrs.

Wickham, but I earnestly hope it is the former. Inmates have been known to escape from asylums and prisons.”

“I understand. Do you think the file will ever be reopened?”

“Not for one hundred years. Once a murder case is marked closed, the files are sealed and the date is written on the outside when they can be made public. It will be a full century before anyone looks at those papers again.”

It couldn’t be more official than that; the case was indeed closed.

“A century…why so long a time?”

“Well, the hundred-year rule was put into effect to guarantee the anonymity of all those making confidential statements to the police during the course of the investigation. It’s best that way. Now no one will be prying into our reports on the Ripper until the year 1992.

It is over.”

“Thank Heaven for that.”

“Amen.”

Inspector Abberline chatted a little longer and then took his leave.

I strolled through the halls of my school, a former church building adapted to its present needs. I stopped in one of the classrooms.

Some of the children were paying attention to the teacher, others were daydreaming, a few were drawing pictures. Just like children everywhere.

Not all the children who pass through here will be helped; some will go on to better themselves, but others will slide back into the life of the streets. I can save none of them. I must not add arrogance to my other offenses by assuming the role of deliverer; God does not entrust the work of salvation to one such as I. But I am permitted to offer the children a chance, to give them the opportunity to lift themselves above the life of squalor and crime that is all they have ever known. I do most earnestly thank God for granting me this privilege.

Periodically I return to Miller’s Court. I go there not because it is the site of Edward’s final murder, but because it is where I last saw Rose Howe, the young girl who helped me deliver the Macklin baby. There is a place for Rose in my school. I have not found her yet, but I will keep searching.

My life belongs to the children of Whitechapel now. My prayers are for them; those prayers are the only ones of mine ever likely to be answered. When I do pray for myself, it is always and only to ask for an easier place in Hell.